


our dreams assured and we all

by excelsior



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Basically shit, Dreams, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, feelings dump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 12:42:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5417492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/excelsior/pseuds/excelsior
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He dreams (technically, he does not).</p>
            </blockquote>





	our dreams assured and we all

**Author's Note:**

> apparently, I can never do brotp when it comes to these two tragically un-canon dorks. it hurts, man.

He dreams.

Technically, it shouldn't even be called dreaming because it's not so much as his subconscious spinning out fresh stories every time his head hits the pillow as it is his brain adamantly latching on to memories that keep him trashing around every night. If he didn't always wake up in the middle of the night with someone's scream echoing in his ears, barely audible over his erratic heartbeat, he might've just congratulated his brain over having such an articulate memory. He might've even laughed. Ironic, really, that the boy who lived is haunted by the _dead_.

Dreams are King Cross stations and headmasters long gone and reflections of dead parents clutching his shoulder in the dirty mirror. Dreams are not the last looks on people's faces when they die nor is it the corpses neatly filed in the same hall where they used to celebrate Christmas in. They are not the laughter of a man who is barely human at all or the merciless eyes of snake who lives to kill for the master he serves.

He is not dreaming.

He does not.

 

 

"You look terrible."

They are seated outside a cafe in central London, nestled comfortably underneath the shade of a giant oak tree. Comfort drapes over them like a curtain, and they remain in companionable silence until she speaks up. When she does, Harry immediately regrets choosing this cafe- or at the very least, this table. He didn't think about how much the sun would illuminate his tired, drawn face. "You shouldn't say that to Witch Weekly's Most Charming Man of the Year awardee now, shouldn't you?"

But Hermione doesn't laugh. Her face still looks thoughtful, worry etching itself unto her features. Harry wants to laugh, it's almost as if they're back in Hogwarts and her face is screwed up with concentration, her brain unearthing clever little things only she could think of. A potion maybe, or a spell, or- _pipes_.

"You're having nightmares," she says, and it isn't a question. Sometimes Harry wonders how many things Hermione knows about himself that he doesn't. Sometimes he thinks Hermione is so much more him than he ever will be because sometimes he just confuses the hell out of himself but Hermione can map his thoughts backwards and hear his words before they even leave his tongue.

He doesn't reply, so Hermione takes his hand. Her own, like his, is callous from scars and half-healed cuts and razor thin scrapes collected over the years. She keeps the silence, doing nothing but clasping his hand firmly in hers. When Harry finally looks into her eyes, he feels sucked into another memory. He can almost see the desolate graves of his parents, the bitter wind like daggers against his skin, the endless stretch of dull, gray sky. He was almost blown away by the wind of resentment and exhaustion, anchored with nothing but her hand so resolutely grasping his.

He should say something, he feels. _Anything_. If not for today, then for Godric's Hollow. For the last nine years. For every shit she had to take to keep him safe. For all the times she nearly died for him, she killed for him, she _lived_ for him. 

"Hermione," he starts, but she strokes his knuckles with the pad of her thumb and he falls quiet. Gladly, Harry thinks, for he is sure that none of his words will ever encompass how he is bursting at the seams with gratitude and compassion.

After all, how can the Boy Who Lived ever thank the Girl Who Kept Him Alive?

 

 

 

"I have them too," she says suddenly one afternoon. They are perched lazily on a hammock outside the Burrow, haphazardly conjured by Ron a few weeks ago. It is the weekend, which means no work, which means the time where they all become sloths and get fat with Molly's cooking. Inside the house, it is chaotic. Arthur's birthday party will be held tonight and Molly is driving sticks up everyone's asses, trying to get them to do the chores and the cleaning like they were still fourteen.

Harry managed to slip away by taking a fussing Teddy out to see the garden gnomes and Hermione quickly followed to do spells should the little buggers clamp their teeth on any part of Theodore Lupin. "What?" Harry says, his eyes still trained on Teddy tottering away, playfully throwing rocks at the bushes.

"I said, I have nightmares too." Hermione repeats firmly, and Harry tears his gaze away from the child to look at her. Her eyes have a faraway look in them, as if all the sadness in the world were bottled up in oceans of hazelnut brown. "But I don't think they can be called nightmares when all you ever do is-"

"Remember." Harry supplies, feeling his breath catch in his throat. Hermione still isn't looking at him. Her hands are wringing themselves over and over again, fingers fiddling over each other in what looks to Harry like a desperate attempt to distract herself from the onslaught of tears.

This was a _moment._

Harry never called it anything else because he had no idea what else to call such a cataclysmic event. All he knew was when Hermione looked like this, like she was on the verge of falling off a cliff, he begins to see stars behind his eyes from all the pain he feels when he sees that her heart was bound to break in a few seconds. And what's worse is how painful it is for him to see her frantically pick up all the shattered remains and glue them back together, all because everyone expects her to be the one to never lose her head. He saw it when Malfoy called her a mudblood for the first time, when they sat in the deserted classroom back in sixth year, when Ron left and in his wake, unspoken blame- in fact, he'd seen it so many times that if he had a galleon for every time she managed to break her heart he'd have enough money to buy her one that will never ever split itself into a million pieces ever again.

And if _he_ had a galleon for every time he caused her sorrow, well, he'd probably have enough money to himself a new heart that wouldn't slice itself in half every damn time he saw Hermione Granger about to cry.

But this moment was different, because for the first time Harry isn't helpless about it. He could do something, could stop the moment from becoming one. There were no nosy classmates, no half-hidden monsters lurking in the distance, no horcruxes begging to be stabbed by fangs, no weight of the Wizarding World perched atop their skinny shoulders.

He cupped her cheek and leaned forward, resting his forehead above hers, his lips a breath away, ghosting over hers. "Hermione," he whispers, almost like a prayer. It feels clandestine, somehow, the two of them like this, suspended like the candles that used to illuminate the cavern of the Great Hall. Hermione doesn't move, only shudders to breath every half-second or so. He could feel the warmth from her skin, feel the pain and hurt and heartbreak and memories pour out of her. They stay like that, paralyzed in their own world, holding on to one another to stop from drowning in a bottomless sea of days long gone and people long passed away.

 

 

 

At the party, they are void of any emotion, their faces painted in happy expressions. They talk and they laugh at the jokes, but when the sky turns inky, Hermione politely excuses herself and while Harry is chatting idly with Kingsley Shacklebot, she goes out and disapparates with only so much as a faint _pop._

 

 

 

Later, when all the festivities are over, he sees Ron standing outside the Burrow. His hair, so vibrant a ginger in the sunlight, looks dark and husky under the night sky. Harry isn't sure Ron heard him go out of the house, but that is quickly dispelled as he turns around and flashes him a sad smile.

"Hey, mate,"

"Ron," he responds, unsure of what to say. "Ginny said you wanted to talk to me?"

"Yeah," he says. He opens his mouth a few times before snapping it shut, as if not knowing how to say what he wanted to say. This weird yapping almost made Harry laugh until he finally blurted out, "I saw you and Hermione earlier, by the garden." At this, the tips of his ears go slightly red, whether from embarrassment or anger, Harry didn't know.

"We just..." He starts then awkwardly trails off, not knowing what to say. _Had a talk_ is an outright lie because whatever happened earlier, all its magic lies in all the things they didn't say. _Shared a moment_ feels too corny, and _snogged our brains_ out is just an (unwelcome) fantasy from his sixteen year-old self. 

Ron continues as if he didn't speak at all. "She didn't say anything to me. All those years, all those nights after the war, all those times I cried for hours on end, she just kept quiet. You don't know, or maybe you haven't noticed, but Hermione became like stone after the war. She bottled everything up. The only time I ever saw her shed a tear was when she didn't know I was looking." He took a deep, shuddering breath and Harry had to clamp his lips shut to keep the questions from escaping. Questions like _why,_ and _how,_ and _wherewasIwhensheneededme-_

"Even after she woke up from a nightmare, she'd go into the bathroom and cry then come out and pretend nothing had happened. It was so difficult, you know? We were supposed to go through this together. That's what this is about, this whole _thing_ we've worked up for ourselves." His voice sounds thick and it hurts when the words slam into Harry's ear. "But she doesn't even trust me, not enough to show me what she really feels."

It feels like a heavy blanket has been laid over them, suffocating them in silence. One, two, three, a thousand heartbeats pass them by, unbroken by nothing but a few chirping sounds here and there. Harry feels he should say something, anything at this point. He could comfort Ron, or reassure him that Hermione was nothing more than a friend ( _"She's like a sister to me."_ ) and he was only doing brotherly duties, but that would mean lying. And the faint scar on his hand was a constant, twisted reminder that he mustn't.

"She loves you." Ron suddenly says, and his voice is void of any anger. Or any other emotion, really. "She always have."

"She loves you too!" Harry cuts in fiercely because how many times should he be responsible for other people's hearts splitting into two? Didn't he kill enough dreams already? Weren't there enough people who paid their own lives for the cost that his own brought?

"I know, mate." Ron looks at his and his eyes, his eyes _cut._ They drill into Harry's, bury their feelings deep within his own. "But, it's not the same."

He doesn't know how why he says it, but it's out of his mouth before he could think it over. "I don't always have to win, Ron." And the words taste bitter on his mouth, acrid and pitiful.

Ron doesn't look away. "You already have." And Harry doesn't know what to say, what to think. He can barely feel anything, except for the painful way his nails are digging crescents into his palm but he doesn't let up because if he did, there would be nothing to anchor him to reality anymore. "But Hermione's not a trophy. She's not a consolation prize, she's _Hermione._ And she loves you, and she loves me, but she _needs_ you. She doesn't need me, Harry, not like that. And maybe once upon a time I needed her like that, but not anymore. And that's fine."

Harry looks at him this time, takes in the sight of Ron, his smile sad but accepting all at the same time. And all he can say is, "And they say you have the emotional range of a teaspoon,"

Ron laughs, and it's hollow but genuine at the same time. 

And Harry knows, he  _knows,_ they'll be alright.

 

 

 

 

 A week later, Ron tells Harry he spoke to Hermione, who has been faithfully ignoring him since her crying spell. He tells her to wait, give her time and be patient and Harry wants to laugh at the irony of it all.

But he keeps quiet, nods once.

At night, the (not)dreams just as faithfully plays themselves in a loop, as if Harry jammed the replay button lodged somewhere in his twisted brain.

 

 

 

"Hello," Harry looks up from his auror report, startled at the sight before him. It's Hermione, looking much more put together since Arthur's birthday. Her hair is pulled together in a neat bun, and freckles are dusted across the bridge of her nose. He hastily stuffs the papers in the drawer and stands up, effectively knocking his ink bottle over.

"Damn," Harry says, shaking his head. "I don't know why we can't just use pens for Merlin's sake,"

Hermione laughs. "They're sentimental."

"And a mess,"

"I think you've just adequately described humanity." She says wryly as he siphons the ink back in the bottle.

There's a pause, and then-

"Where have you been Hermione?" Harry says. His voice is hoarse with emotion, and exhaustion creeps into every tone.

"Australia." And in that one word, Harry can hear a lifetime of hurt jammed into three syllables. "I went to see my-" her voice catches. Parents, the ugly word seems to hang in the air.

"Hermione." He doesn't say anything else. He just walks around the table and hugs her fiercely, and she cries into his shoulder, and it's something he hasn't heard since the night Hagrid marched into the Great Hall with the seemingly lifeless corpse of Harry Potter in his hands. It makes his heart wrench and oh God, he would give anything to make it stop, but he knows she needs this so he just lets her soak his suit in anger, pain, regret and  _tears._

"It hurts," she sobs.

"I love you," he replies. And Harry likes to think that just this once, he finally knew what to say.

 

 

 

There is brown hair spilled across his pillow and a tanned hand entwined with his.

He dreams.


End file.
